


Five Times Zayn Didn't Speak to Harry (and One Time He Did)

by Writcraft



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Apart From When They're Fucking, Bad Communication, Bisexual Harry, Bisexual Zayn, Blow Jobs, Even Then It's Quite Miserable, Everyone is miserable, First Time Blow Jobs, Hand Jobs, Hate Sex, Infidelity, Loneliness, M/M, Mutual Masturbation, Mutual Pining, Pining, Pre-Hiatus and Post-Hiatus, Switching, implied mental health issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-04
Updated: 2017-12-04
Packaged: 2019-02-10 13:58:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,399
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12913356
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Writcraft/pseuds/Writcraft
Summary: A ‘five times’ fic, in which Zayn and Harry find it easier to fuck than talk.





	Five Times Zayn Didn't Speak to Harry (and One Time He Did)

**Author's Note:**

> I needed to write an angsty fic and apparently this is the one that came calling. I've been increasingly more intrigued by the possibilities with Zarry and I thought I'd give this a whirl. It's my first One Direction fic which doesn't feature Nick so I'm all flustered about it, please be kind! I hope you enjoy reading it. Sorry about ALL THE ANGST. If you want to find me on tumblr I'm [@writsgrimmyblog](https://writsgrimmyblog.tumblr.com/) \- come and say hi!

_we don't talk about it_  
_it's something we don't do_  
_'cause once you go without it_  
_nothing else will do_  


Harry Styles – Meet Me in The Hallway

**#1 – Denial**

The first time with Harry is unexpected.

It’s fun and casual when everyone else is around, but eventually Louis, Liam and Niall return to their own rooms, leaving Zayn, Harry and their party of two. With Harry it’s always too quiet. Too still. Zayn needs it to be loud, so he can think clearly despite the hooded stares and the awkward, charged friction that always fills the room when it’s just the two of them. The air hums with all the words unspoken, heavy with the things neither of them wants to say out loud.

“Good show.” Zayn takes a sip of his beer and avails himself of the opportunity to drink in Harry. He’s buzzing and hyper, his muscles still taut and flexing at the memory of the crowds. They’ve already analysed every beat and note, every cheer and humorous sign. Zayn just can’t seem to find the right sort of words with Harry anymore, as their strange electricity throws him off-guard. 

“Yeah,” Harry says. He’s husky and quiet as he sometimes is after a show, messing around with the key to his room as if he can’t quite remember the number. “I should go.” 

“Whatever.” Zayn shrugs and has another drink of his beer. It’s cold and calming, easing the clamminess in his hands and dulling the heat which prickles beneath his skin. 

“Or I could just stay?” Harry sounds half like he’s asking, half like he’s joking. Even when he’s quiet like this, he still fills the space in Zayn’s room with his long limbs and magnetic charm. Desire flares and in a powerful rush of warmth, Zayn can picture every last filthy thought raising the curve of a smile on Harry’s lips. There’s a question in Harry’s smile. Zayn answers it the only way he knows how.

“Whatever,” Zayn says again. He closes the distance between them until the fraction of air keeping them apart is all heat and sweat. The new proximity sends a dusky pink into Harry’s cheekbones, sharp and precise. 

“I’m not ready to go back, yet.” The low cadence of Harry’s voice sends want jack-knifing through Zayn’s chest and it curls hot in his belly when Harry runs his tongue over his lip until it’s damp and slick. 

Zayn’s not one for denying himself much, but he’s spent the last six months denying Harry Styles. It’s becoming harder by the minute.

“Don’t, then. _Don’t_.” Zayn’s not good at the deep stuff. Not the best at conversations about whatever the fuck it is they’re about to do. He’s happy being reckless. He likes to take a risk or three and he thinks Harry’s the kind of person who might be up for everything, once. Zayn can be Harry’s _once_. He’s had enough beer and he’s still buzzed enough to make it seem like a good idea to scratch at the relentless itch that’s been bothering him for some time.

With a groan, Zayn pulls Harry in and kisses him. He’s pliant, and not. Damp-lipped, hot and eager beneath Zayn’s fingers. Harry can kiss but he can also _be_ kissed. He lands with a thud against the wall, his hands gripping onto Zayn’s t-shirt and pulling him close so there’s nothing to keep them apart but the gnawing sense that this is probably a Very Bad Idea. 

Zayn chases the niggling doubts away with his tongue and his lips. He bites Harry on the part of his neck where his pulse jumps and skips. He takes Harry apart with his fingers, sliding them up, up, under his shirt and over the heated, tight flesh where Zayn knows every tattoo as well as he knows his own. He’s spent enough time looking, after all. Spent enough time taking in the twist and flex of Harry’s body as he moves around rooms and dances like nobody’s watching on a stage in front of millions. He envies that, in Harry. The unabashed confidence to just _be_. Zayn’s always caught somewhere between thinking too much and saying _fuck you_ to the world and not thinking at all. 

He yanks at Harry’s jeans, his fingers rough against the denim. The room fills with the sound of zippers, hands against material and heavy, restless gasps of breath. Zayn doesn’t want to get on his knees. He doesn’t fancy that tonight. He’s not ready to feel even more unbalanced than he already does. He doesn’t want to look up, to catch Harry looking down at him. Doesn’t want to have to try to read whatever lingers in Harry’s expression that’s just out of Zayn’s reach. 

Zayn pushes his fingers into Harry’s hair and mouths over his ear, his voice rough. He makes it sound like fun, like it’s a joke. That way he can dismiss it if Harry says no. “Want to suck me off?”

Harry doesn’t say no. Instead he says yes, with a shudder in Zayn’s arms and a glassy-eyed nod. They shift positions, so Zayn has the benefit of the wall keeping him upright. He’s never done this with a lad before. He doesn’t know if Harry has and doesn’t want to ask. Harry yanks down Zayn’s jeans and pants, mouthing over his cock.

“Open up, love.” Zayn tips his head back against the wall and guides Harry closer. He’s more compliant than Zayn expected, eager to get his mouth on Zayn’s prick and happy to be led, and held. Harry’s mouth is as good at giving blowjobs as it is at smiling like the sun and singing with raw, pitch-perfect ease. He takes the length of Zayn’s cock and works over it, slow and assured. He lets Zayn push into his throat and urges him deeper. Harry’s definitely done this before, then. Zayn wonders who. Strangers, Grimmy, _Louis_? Zayn doesn’t know and it’s spoiling it thinking of Harry with somebody else. He pushes the thoughts away and looks down to focus on the way Harry looks when he’s on his knees. Harry’s got his hand on his own prick and he’s fisting it roughly between the tight circle of his fingers. Harry’s dick is gorgeous. It makes Zayn’s mouth water, seeing him like this. Makes him hard and desperate, watching Harry wanking himself off with his lips wrapped around Zayn’s cock. _Fuck_ , it’s good. 

Zayn comes when Harry hums around his cock, moaning out the sound of his own orgasm with Zayn buried in the back of his throat. It’s sudden and sharp, the way it pulses through him with unexpected urgency and brings him over the precipice. His pleasure crashes over him and then just as soon as it happens, it fades into a dull, sated buzz which wraps around him and leaves his legs wobbly. Harry sits back on his heels and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. He looks up at Zayn, his hand sticky and his eyes bright.

“Haven’t done that much before.” Harry laughs, as if the huskiness of his voice takes him by surprise. “Was it shit?”

Zayn swallows at the _much_ and shakes his head, trying to quell the flash of jealousy that blindsides him. “Nah. ‘Course it wasn’t shit. It was good, yeah?” He shouldn’t, but Zayn can’t resist brushing his thumb over Harry’s lips which part a little at the touch. It feels too intimate, too revealing. “Like, really good.”

“Okay.” Harry seems satisfied with that, his head tipping briefly to kiss Zayn’s fingertips and that, too, is more intimate than any heady sexual escapades. “Got any more booze?”

“Probably.” Zayn tucks himself away and roots through the mini-bar. When he turns back, Harry’s fully zipped up again, but he’s stretched out on Zayn’s sofa like he’s already anticipating a round two.

Zayn opens a bottle of something creamy and alcoholic from the mini-bar. After that, Harry’s kisses taste like naff Christmas liquor and they’re sweet enough to hurt.

**#2 – Anger**

The second time, booze is to blame.

They’re in some crappy bar playing pool. Harry gives Zayn a look which means he’s drunk and alone, looking for something. Zayn gives Harry a look right back that says in no uncertain terms he’s not anyone’s _something_. That’s when Harry drinks in Zayn like he wants to strip him bare. Zayn wonders if Harry even knows that it’s so open and obvious. Louis keeps giving them odd looks. Liam and Niall are caught up in a stupid argument Zayn hasn’t been following and Harry’s just _there_ looking at Zayn in a way he has no right to look.

Zayn’s just one more beer away from dragging Harry into another room and scratching at that itch until they can both resurface for air again. He bends over the pool table and slices the white towards two reds, resting on the cushion. They bounce together with a _clack_ and career off around the table. It sinks a yellow and Louis crows with delight, holding his cue aloft.

“Two shots. I’ll clean up, mate. Just watch.”

“I’m watching.” Zayn focuses on Louis and tries, really tries not to look at Harry. Louis gets distracted by footie scores and Zayn puts down his empty bottle, antsy restlessness clawing at his chest and making it difficult to breathe. “Going for a piss.”

“Okay, I’ll save the victory dance for when you’re back.”

Zayn rolls his eyes and finally lets himself look at Harry. Zayn jerks his head towards the bathroom and strides towards it without looking back. His hands get clammy, so he washes them quickly under the tap, not even sure if Harry’s going to follow him. The door swings open and Zayn looks up.

“You can’t fucking stand there, looking at me like that.”

“Looking at you like what?” Harry holds his hands up. “I’m not looking like anything.”

“Tommo thinks something’s up.”

“He’s watching the football. He doesn’t think anything’s up.” Harry pushes a hand through his hair, his gaze intense. “ _Is_ something up?”

“Fuck off.” Zayn’s voice gets low and quiet, and Harry squeezes his shoulder. It’s difficult to stay angry when Harry’s so close and he can’t even explain why he was angry in the first place.

“Come on. Let’s get another beer. It’s fine.”

“Haz.” Zayn takes a breath. Harry’s body is warm and lithe, pressed close to Zayn’s. Zayn just wants to taste his skin and follow the pulse of his heart with his tongue. He wants to take the time they didn’t have the first go around. He wants to do all those things from the videos he sometimes watches with blond twinks that he replaces every single time with images of Harry. Even now, Zayn’s body starts to respond to the thought. He moves closer to Harry, magnetised by the strange pull which just seems to exist between them. “Don’t pretend. It’s just us.”

“I’m not pretending.” Harry’s hands find their way to Zayn’s waist, his mouth pressing insistently against Zayn’s neck. He smells like beer and those expensive scented candles he’s always burning that remind him of home. As if anyone’s home ever smelt like a truckload of Diptyque. Louis calls it the scent of money burning, which is a pretty accurate assessment. 

“Lads, we’re going back to the—” Liam breaks off when Zayn and Harry pull apart, fast enough that Zayn’s pretty sure Liam didn’t see anything. “Back to the hotel. Someone’s put us on Snapchat, so we need to be quick. Everything okay?”

“Everything’s fine.” Harry sounds confident and sure of himself, slinging an arm around Liam’s shoulder. He gives Zayn a smile over his shoulder and mouths _close one_ as Zayn’s heart pumps hard enough to nearly jump out of his chest.

They make their way to their hotel in the back of a couple of hire cars and as soon as they excuse themselves for bed, Harry’s on Zayn in a heartbeat.

“Thought we were going to fuck in the loos. Got hard just thinking about it on the way back.”

“You want that?” Zayn lets Harry strip off and then turns him, pressing him against the wall. He hopes Harry doesn’t notice his hands shake or pick up on the fact Zayn has learned what to do with blokes from magazines and porn. “Want to be fucked up against a wall?”

“I wanted to fuck _you_.” Harry turns and propels them both on the bed. He crawls over Zayn and presses down to kiss him, his lips hot and insistent. “I wanted to fuck you there in that shit bathroom and then have you fuck me back here.”

“Maybe I don’t want to be fucked,” Zayn says, which would be ironic because he already is. Completely and utterly fucked, at that.

“Don’t you?” Harry frowns but it soon clears, and he gives Zayn a smile. “Doesn’t matter. Let’s do something else.”

“Like what?” Zayn’s breath shudders as it leaves his lips. 

“Let’s wank together.” Harry’s grin is wide and filthy, and Zayn wants to kiss that beautiful fucking smirk away. Harry stretches out and strokes himself. Zayn’s breath catches in his throat at the slow slide of Harry’s hand. He watches for a moment before pushing Harry’s hand away and positioning himself low over Harry’s body. He kisses Harry’s skin which is hot to the touch and presses his fingers into the fleshy parts of Harry’s thighs, hard enough to bruise. Harry makes these gorgeous, rough sounds as Zayn uses his tongue and his mouth to leave Harry’s cock slick. It bounces against his belly, his want an arrogant display of size and confidence. With a low growl which rumbles unexpectedly from his chest, Zayn keeps Harry pinned to the bed with firm hands and gets to work on taking him apart. The taste of Harry’s cock is a little salty, a little bitter at the tip where he leaks pre-come. It’s different, but not unpleasant. Holding Harry in place with one hand and stroking the base of his cock with the other, Zayn thinks of all the tricks he’s learned from the things he’s watched and read. He thinks of the times he’s imagined Harry stretched out like this, perspiring and so, so fuckable.

Zayn loses himself in the hot, hard weight of Harry against his tongue. His confidence builds and he lets his teeth drag just a bit, not enough to hurt (much) but enough to make Harry clutch the sheets and make a futile buck upwards into Zayn’s throat. When his jaw starts to ache, he pulls back and sits on his heels, his breathing heavy. “Let’s watch you, then. I want to see it.”

“Yeah.” Harry smiles, his lips a curious tilt as he watches Zayn through dark eyes. It’s easy to say things like _stroke your prick for me_ but impossible to say anything that might engage with whatever the fuck it is they’re doing, whatever the fuck it all means. “Want to watch you too.”

Zayn kicks off his trousers and pulls off his t-shirt, before positioning himself back between Harry’s parted legs, one knee hitched up in invitation. He fists his cock, keeping his eyes on every twist of Harry’s wrist and the way he mumbles curses through parted lips. Like the first time, Zayn’s climax takes him by surprise and he catches Harry’s hand and the tip of his exposed cock with it. It makes Harry jerk up, his hand moving faster and Zayn’s name falling soft and low into the still room. When Harry comes, it coats his belly and makes it sticky to the touch. Zayn presses his fingers into the jizz, wondering why he’s always so desperate to taste Harry. To taste every last bit of him. 

They stretch out together on the bed and Harry presses his lips to Zayn’s cheek, just next to his ear. “I want to fuck you, or for you to fuck me. Next time.”

Zayn swallows, tempted to tell Harry he can’t always have what he wants.

In the end he silences any further conversation with restless kisses, because they both know that would be a lie.

**#3 – Bargaining**

The third time, it’s because Harry wants to be fucked and Zayn can’t stop thinking about it.

The routine is sporadic at best, and Zayn took the opportunity to try a few things out with strange blokes that promised to keep his secret. It’s easy to find people to fuck when you’re a pop star, but far harder to find people who don’t want to talk about it. Zayn doesn’t dwell too much on the fact that so many looked like poor versions of Harry. He hopes no one notices that he has a type. There’s something desperately freeing about finally understanding it’s not just Harry. Not just _Harry Styles-sexual_. It’s good to be with other women too, sliding his tongue into their heat and taking every pleasure from the curves and soft parts that are so different to Harry’s. _Bisexual_. _Pansexual_. _Fluid_. So many words for what it might be. Zayn just wants to be Zayn. Not labelled by fame, sexuality or reduced to race or gender. He just wants to _be_ so he doesn’t call it anything. Tells Louis one night he thinks he might like cock too, and doesn’t miss the way Louis’ shoulders get tight, the way his eyes narrow.

“Louis, Louis.” Zayn is pissed. He presses a kiss to Louis’ cheek and it’s almost a thing, before Louis pushes him away and puts on the Fifa. They play together in silence and it doesn’t get mentioned again. Harry’s name never comes up.

“I want to fuck you,” Zayn says to Harry later that night. They’re both hot in the balmy night air which filters through the open window. Beads of perspiration dot Harry’s skin and he arches, cat-like under Zayn’s scrutiny.

“Yeah, you should do that.” Harry’s throat works and his voice dips lower. “Fuck me, I mean.”

It’s further than they’ve been before but again, Harry seems to know what he’s doing and now Zayn does too. He wonders if Harry’s heard the rumours about Zayn’s nights out with groupies, wonders if he cares. Zayn presses his fingers against the dark lines of Harry’s tattoos and explores him inside out with his tongue. When Harry trembles and begs, Zayn’s sure there’s no better sound. He urges Harry onto his knees and elbows, pressing into him with one swift thrust which doesn’t give him much time to do more than groan and arch, flexing beneath Zayn’s hands.

It’s rough as it always is, the aftermath too sweet, too tender and too much. The room is heady with the scent of their sweat, sex and the late summer stench of another large, faceless city. Zayn’s heart drums in his chest and he has the strangest desire to laugh. The weirdest urge to sing _that’s what makes you beautiful_ with his arms outstretched and Harry laughing at him from the bed, throwing a pillow at him like they do this all the time and it’s relaxed, comfortable and important to both of them.

Instead Zayn puts some hip-hop on the radio and throws Harry a towel, so he can take the first shower.

They fall asleep in the same bed for the first time since this all started. They press together again as they sun comes up, kisses as fleeting as the morning rays which settle on the bed and wash away the memories of the night before.

**#4 – Depression**

The fourth time, it’s the kind of day when the sun doesn’t seem to come out. 

It’s been raining on and off for twenty-four hours and there’s nothing to do when you’re trapped in a hotel by screaming crowds outside. Zayn goes for a smoke with Louis and keeps out of sight on the balcony so the paps won’t catch them.

“What’s up with you and Harry?” Louis’ gaze is sharp, and he exhales a thin stream of smoke from the corner of his mouth. Zayn knows something went down with Harry and Louis, but he still isn’t sure what. He doesn’t know if it was growing up, growing apart or if there was something more to it and he doesn’t want to dwell on the _Harry and Louis_ thing too much. As far as he’s concerned there’s nothing going on, but fan rumours and gossip. There never has been. What gives him pause and keeps him awake at night is the fact Louis would say exactly the same about Zayn and Harry, if anyone ever asked.

“Nothing.” Zayn lights another cigarette, because one definitely isn’t enough for this situation. “We’re not that close.”

“Give over.” Louis rolls his eyes and then studies Zayn, his cigarette hanging loose between his teeth. “How’s Pez?”

“Good.” Guilt worms through Zayn and he pushes a hand through his hair. “She’s good, man.”

“Nice lass,” Louis says. It sounds like he's criticising Zayn. 

“I know.” Obviously Zayn knows she’s _nice_. She’s just not Harry and that’s the fucking problem. He wishes his cigarette was a spliff, craving the acrid sharpness in his throat and the way weed makes him woozy and relaxed. It’s better than booze. Booze makes him too energetic, too desperate for all the things Zayn can’t let himself have. Booze doesn’t even taste like alcohol anymore. It tastes like Harry’s kisses and the sweat and tang of long, secretive nights in one of their hotel rooms when the world around them sleeps.

“What’s going on with you and Harry?” Zayn turns the question back on Louis, knowing it’s going to end the conversation.

“Nothing.” Louis gives Zayn a thoughtful look. “Maybe we’re just not that close anymore, either.”

Liam comes in with a couple of boxes of pizza and complains about the smoking, sitting next to Zayn and wrapping his arm around his shoulders. He’s warm, Liam is. Solid and sweet. “Anyone seen Styles?”

“No,” Louis and Zayn say at the same time.

The remnants of midday sun make the balcony hot and the air around them fills with secrets.

*

It’s a surprise, finding Harry in his room. He looks miserable and his jaw is fixed with a tightness that’s unfamiliar to Zayn. When Harry’s sad, he looks like a kicked puppy and Zayn can’t stand it. He sits next to Harry and knocks their knees together.

“Alright?”

“Called my mum.” Harry breathes, in and out. “Just miss home a bit, sometimes.”

Zayn gets that. He gets that as well as anyone. “Me too, mate. Me too.”

“It’s weird, being famous.” Harry looks up and it’s open, honest and disarming. “Sometimes I love it, but days like today I hate it. Spent hours on Twitter. They’re giving Grimmy shit about me.”

“Oh.” Zayn doesn’t know what to say about that. He’s still not sure whether Grimmy is the _just friends_ sort of friend Zayn is, or the _just friends_ sort of friend Niall is. The possibility that it’s the former makes it difficult for Zayn to feel bad for him. Instead a small flicker of pleasure burns through him and he hates himself for that, swallowing it back together with his childish jealousy when it comes to Harry. “He’s good at handling it though, yeah?”

“Yeah.” Harry shrugs. “Shouldn’t have to, though.”

“No.” Zayn squeezes Harry’s shoulder. “Get off Twitter. It’s shit.”

“Need distracting.” Harry looks at Zayn. “Fancy it?”

 _Always_. Zayn nods. “If you like.”

“Can I do you, this time?” Harry studies Zayn’s shoulder, his fingers sliding under the sleeve of Zayn’s t-shirt. 

“Can do.” Zayn’s breath catches because it’s their first time doing it like that. It feels significant, somehow. It’s not like he hasn’t wanked to the thought of it or tried it with strangers that always end up taking on Harry’s face at the moment of climax. It’s just odd, being here with Harry and talking about what they’re going to do when it’s usually just hot kisses and finding their way to a point where Zayn’s fucking Harry’s mouth, fist or body and Harry whispers Zayn’s name into the darkness.

When Harry takes his time with Zayn it’s unexpectedly tender. The sun sets on the already dark day and they ignore countless knocks at the door, hands pressed over one another’s mouths to keep each other silent as Liam, Louis and finally Niall come searching for them and prat around outside for a bit. It’s their secret and Zayn likes and loathes that in equal measure. The thing is, he’s not even sure what he’d say if he did tell anyone. He’s fucking Harry, but it’s so much more than that. He imagines Liam’s frown of disapproval (not fond of cheating) and the sharp, unreadable way Louis gets when something annoys him. He imagines Niall’s confusion and then thinks about Perrie finding out and the way she would push at Zayn and call him every name under the sun.

“They can’t know,” Zayn says. He breathes it out when Harry sinks into him, hard and painful. “They can’t know,” he says again, through gritted teeth.

“Okay.” Harry sounds almost disappointed, his lips soft against the nape of Zayn’s neck as he smooths hair away from the skin with his thumb. His voice shakes and he kisses lower, softer, slides out then back in. They used loads of lube and the sound is strange and unfamiliar, the sensation of Harry behind him and over him enough to make Zayn come apart. “Okay.”

They fuck until their limbs ache, with Harry knowing all the tricks to keep them hard for a while. It makes Zayn’s insides burn and his whole body flexes with the dull heat of keeping in position. He focuses on the sparks of pleasure Harry’s thrusts elicit and focuses on not saying his name with a reverence that would give them both away. 

When it’s over, they spoon together in the bed and Harry brushes his fingers along the damp patches on Zayn’s torso. “Can I stay?” Harry mouths at Zayn’s neck, his voice low and rough.

“Better not. Don’t want the lads to get wind of it.” Zayn pulls away, even as every part of his aching body wants to scream _stay, stay_. “Might be out for a drink, later.”

“Yeah.” Harry slips out of bed and frowns, opening his mouth to say something else. He pauses, and the silence stretches out between them. It’s moments like this that Zayn realises Harry’s just as bad at communicating as Zayn is. He’s brilliant with pouring all his emotion into a song, but he can’t ever give a straight answer or whisper a bright, open _I need you_ anymore than Zayn can. “I think I’ll give it a miss. Might give some people a call.”

“Don’t go on Twitter.” Zayn’s voice gets tight, his chest so full of Harry and his body still brilliantly sore from the earlier intimacies that slide away from them into the shadows. He wants to know who Harry's planning to call, but he also knows he hasn't earned the right to ask. “Full of dickheads.”

“I won’t.” Harry smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “See you, then.”

“See you. Get the light, will you?” Zayn rolls over and stares at the wall, so he won’t have to remember how Harry’s face looks when he’s saying goodbye. 

The door closes and there’s a finality in the quiet _click_ of the latch, like there won’t be a next time, even though they both know there will.

**#5 – Acceptance**

The fifth time, it’s inevitable.

It’s one of those dark nights when the moon is completely obscured by the clouds and the stars have gone out, obliterated by pollution from the city that rolls and hums beneath them. It’s just another city and another restless sky, heavy with rain clouds and the distant rumble of traffic on wide freeways. They didn’t talk about Harry coming to Zayn’s room, but they didn’t have to. The night had that weird energy from the start as they both got boisterous and sweaty onstage, grabbing the odd moment to whisper things to one another, hot, open-mouthed pulses of broken sentences that didn’t quite lift high enough to carry above the music.

Zayn opens the door and lets Harry in, checking the corridor and finding it mercifully empty. He closes the door behind them and they watch one another, like animals about to engage in battle. Maybe that’s what this is, this silent rough and tumble. A moment of owning, possessing, claiming. A desperate need that’s been thrumming through Zayn’s bones from the first bar of the first song, a magnetic pull that’s tugged him into Harry’s stratosphere once again.

Harry looks like he’s going to say something, so Zayn stops him with a kiss. He pushes Harry back against the door and Harry lets himself be pushed, gripping two hot, tight fists into Zayn’s t-shirt and yanking him in, closer, breathless, more, more, _more_.

Not enough, though. Still never enough. It never is with them. It’s never enough to chase the insomnia away entirely but it’s as close as it can be. Harry’s lips are sweet and sharp, the taste of him now ineffably familiar. He’s always like this after a concert. A ball of energy, high on the moments of insane celebrity that send Zayn fleeing for cover. He laps it up, drinks it in and tastes like raw, untamed energy as he grapples with their belts and shoves down his jeans.

“You got stuff?” Harry’s voice is thick and low.

“In the drawer. Get on the bed.” Zayn keeps it clipped and hurried, his voice full of throaty insistence that masks any tremble, any uncertainty. He needs this. Needs it like Harry does, so they can get a night’s sleep and at last break the tension that’s been murmuring between them since the last time. Too many light touches and lingering stares to count all fuse together now, as if every single one was designed to build up to this moment. That’s their foreplay, Zayn and Harry’s. The silence that speaks louder than any words. The way the air between them thickens and pulses with sparks of erratic energy that’s just sharp enough to burn.

Harry presses his fingers into Zayn’s skin when they’re naked, at last. The still rumpled sheets spread out around them both and Harry’s hair is a long, unruly mess which tickles as he makes an insistent path down Zayn’s body. Zayn tangles his fingers in it and pulls just hard enough to hurt. It makes Harry moan, a low sound from the depths of his chest. 

“Want you to fuck me tonight,” Harry says.

“Turn over, then.” Zayn nudges Harry’s hip and stops kissing Harry’s hot skin, for just long enough to speak.

“No, man.” Harry says it quietly, off the back of a soft laugh which is more bite than humour. “I want you to fuck _me_ tonight.”

The insinuation that Zayn can pretend it’s anyone other than Harry when he knows every inch of Harry’s skin like his own, slices through him.

“I’m always fucking you, Haz.” It's true. Even when Zayn's with someone else, it's thinking about Harry that brings him to completion.

It’s the closest Zayn can get to the emotions which worm through him, hot, angry and relentless. He presses his lips back against Harry’s skin and fights back the urge to cry as he tastes Harry’s perspiration and breathes in the musky scent of him.

When they fuck, Zayn looks into Harry’s eyes, loses himself in biting, breathless kisses and wonders when they’re ever going to say the right words. Harry doesn’t know it’s goodbye, but he will. Zayn wants to have one more moment of losing himself in those rare flashes of Harry’s smile and taking in the taste and scent of Harry while everything is still untarnished. 

“We should talk,” Harry says when they finish. He pulls his bottom lip between his teeth, doe-eyed and serious. “Like, properly talk.”

“Maybe.” Zayn shrugs. “Dunno that there’s much to talk about. Just fucking, innit?”

Zayn doesn’t like to talk about love. Not that it’s _love_ , not really. Harry makes him angry, sometimes and love shouldn’t do that. Shouldn’t burn through veins and unsettle the cosmos or whatever. 

Harry’s eyes flash and Zayn hates that he’s like this. Hates that he’s greedy for it to be more than just getting off. Hates that Harry’s so much more than an itch that needs scratching. Hates that he doesn’t know what he is to Harry, if he’s something or nothing at all.

“Is something up?” Harry rolls onto his back and tilts his head to the side so he can see Zayn. His long hair fans out on the pillow and he looks serious. “You’d say, wouldn’t you?”

“You know me, mate.” Zayn musters up a smile. “I’d tell you.”

“Hmm.” Harry looks like he isn’t convinced but he shifts closer anyway. “Promise?”

“Promise,” Zayn says. 

Harry’s lips are warm, but his kisses still send a shiver down Zayn’s spine. He doesn’t want to need Harry this much. Can’t quite bring himself to say those words out loud. “Fancy not talking for a bit longer, then?” Harry’s words are hot and breathy against Zayn’s skin. He sounds hopeful and it breaks Zayn’s heart.

“Yeah.” Zayn lets Harry tongue over the sensitive parts of his body until _yeah_ becomes _yes, yes_ and Harry’s name sounds like the promise Zayn knows he’s already broken.

**#6 – Grief**

“I’m leaving the band,” Zayn says. They’re all there, watching him with curious distrust, simmering anger and a sense of betrayal which leaves him numb. “Got to. I can’t do it anymore.”

“Why?” Harry knows why, Zayn doesn’t know why it has to be him that asks. Of everyone he looks the most put out and Zayn wants to shout at him, yell _you want to leave too_ because he knows Harry does. Knows it’s something he’s been thinking about and preparing for, even if he’s never said as much. Harry, of course, is going to want to do it right. He’s going to want to be earnest about it and keep his friends, mend those tentative bridges with Louis and keep Niall and Liam as close as he can.

Zayn isn’t like that. He doesn’t have the energy to be kind anymore. He’s given so much it’s like he’s only got energy enough for himself. There’s a niggling part of him that says they’ll probably be better off without him anyway, and he swallows it back. Pushes it into that box, marked _do not open_. The one with all the shit with Harry in, the one with those feelings that crawl beneath the surface of his skin and make him want to burn the whole world down. The aching heart which feels so thoroughly used and beaten by now he’s not sure who’s going to want him. Maybe he can just find a nice girl. A nice girl who isn’t Harry Styles, who he can fuck and laugh with and they can maybe get a kitten and Zayn can pretend he hasn’t really been in love before, even though he is in love and he has been for such a long time. It’s just hard to say it, when your mind is full of broken things.

They hug, even though there’s already an insurmountable distance between them. “Love you, man.” Zayn whispers into Liam’s hug, holding on for dear life. 

When Harry’s arms wrap around him, he just breathes Harry in and keeps his _I love you_ where it belongs, consigned to the silence of shattered dreams.

**#7 – Coping**

When Zayn says, “to be honest, I never really spoke to Harry even when I was in the band, so I didn’t really expect that much of a relationship with him,” it doesn’t feel like a lie. Zayn didn’t expect anything, and that’s the truth. He didn’t expect the intimacies and the tangle of limbs and fingers twisting together in the sheets to continue.

There’s a dull roar in his head and Zayn’s chest hurts. His answers feel sluggish and slow, his hair unfamiliar when he runs a hand over it. He needs a smoke. He closes his eyes for as long as he can manage without looking weird. In the darkness, he can almost taste Harry again. Salty with perspiration and sweet like that crap liquor from all those years ago. He watches Harry, from afar. Thinks about sending him texts and wishing him well. 

Zayn opens his eyes and swallows around the lump in his throat. So what if the press latch onto that quote and run with it? He didn’t speak much to Harry when the band was together. They just fucked the hearts right out of one another and used their bodies to say the stuff they couldn’t ever put into words. Haz even wrote a song about morphine, hotel hallways and bedrooms occupied by one person he doesn’t know how to get back to. Zayn knew it was about him. A _hat tip_ , Harry said. There are moments when Zayn wants to go nuclear and tell the world about the past that seems destined to remain unspoken. The times he knows Harry waited outside the bedroom door and Zayn didn’t open it because opening it would mean opening his heart and more.

_Just let me know, I’ll be at the door, at the door_

It doesn’t get better. When Zayn’s in the same country as Harry, he takes in the glitzy suits and the bright lights that have always surrounded Harry. The _treat people with kindness_ feels like it’s aimed at him and all the others who left Harry nursing a broken heart, speaking to his mum over a broken telephone connection, fucking models and strangers just to feel something other than lost. 

Zayn's phone is full of them. Messages to Harry he never sent. The distance between them is too big, the litany of unspoken sentences too plentiful. Instead of private texts, Zayn speaks to Harry through interviews and reads what Harry says about him, each fresh page leaving paper cuts on his heart. 

Everyone's wrong, about silence.

It never speaks louder than words.


End file.
